It's easier to be gay in the US army than it is to be gay in hip-hop. As yet, discounting R Kelly's R&B opera, no mainstream hip-hop star has been spotted exiting any closets, since even in a scene where domestic violence and sizzurp-sipping receive the "Only God can judge me" treatment, boy-on-boy action appears to be the last remaining taboo.

But in 2012, a whole wave of fearless gay New York rappers are stepping out and sticking two well-manicured fingers up to the notion that there is no room for them in hip-hop. There have been gay rappers before. Recently, trailblazers like Sissy Nobby and Big Dipper took the risks that made it easier for others to follow. But this year forward-thinking mainstream rappers such as A$AP Rocky, Drake and Nicki Minaj have created a fertile soil for the growth of a new kind of normal. Right on cue, a sizable group of self-coined "queer rappers" have emerged – and they have talent to match the hype.

If you've leafed through the pages of Vogue in the last six months, chances are you've heard of Zebra Katz. And in case you haven't, he's the butch rapper with the strong jaw and the whiplash lyrics who was all over Paris Fashion Week in January. His track Ima Read is a menacing and minimalist industrial chant that has become queer rap's crossover hit.

Zebra Katz

Ojay Morgan, the man behind the Zebra Katz moniker, was still working as a caterer when designer Rick Owens played his track on repeat for the entirety of his catwalk show. What followed was an unadulterated love-in. Azealia Banks DJed the track before performing at a party at Karl Lagerfeld's house; Twitter shout-outs came from the likes of Questlove and RuPaul; and Diplo signed him to his Mad Decent splinter label Jeffree's.

At first glance Ima Read is a pro-education anthem, but a closer look reveals that it's just as much about "reading" – the art of the sophisticated insult that is ubiquitous in the underground ball culture that Morgan grew up on. These balls are the lavish pageants that flourished in the 1980s, drawing black and Latino crowds and awarding prizes for vogueing or the most convincing drag outfits; indeed, it's telling that the new breed of gender-bending New York rappers owe as much to ball legends like DJ Mike Q as they do to Jay-Z or Biggie. The scene and its unique styles were captured brilliantly in the 1990 documentary Paris Is Burning, a big influence on Madonna, and a window into a unique world that offered refuge and identity to New York's most disenfranchised minorities.

"It's great to see where a song can lead you based on your gender identity. The industry uses it as a tool and you have to use it as a tool as well"

Ball shows are accompanied by a quick-witted onslaught of commentary that requires the slickest of flows, a skill at the very heart of what 2012's queer rappers are all about. Morgan has chosen to reference his foremothers, but only very subtly. It is perhaps for this reason that he is the only one of his peers who is currently signed. "As an artist," he says, "it's great to see where a song can lead you based on your gender identity. I think the industry uses it as a tool and you have to use it as a tool as well."

Ball culture has even found its way into mainstream hip-hop. Nicki Minaj is more drag than a drag queen, A$AP Rocky calls himself a "pretty muthafucker", and Willow Smith's Whip My Hair video features vogueing legend Leyomi Mizrahi.

Rashard Bradshaw is Cakes Da Killa, the puppy-faced new kid on the block whose sound is decidedly more straight-up hip-hop than many of his peers, and his humble disposition belies his solid flow. Ironically, he feels that mainstream acclaim has become more tangible the more the scene has chosen to reject it. "You have the masculine crowd who've been doing it for a long time," says Bradshaw. "But it seems like the more feminine rappers are the ones really storming it at the moment."

Perhaps an acceptance of more outwardly feminine rappers is symptomatic of the industry's collective fear of being outed. Rappers in drag are more likely to be compared to Lil' Kim or Azealia Banks than they are to Busta Rhymes or Rick Ross. "So many rappers aren't talking about what's going on in the music industry and how many people are gay," says DJ and scene matriarch Venus X. "If you then have gay rappers who are coming in to tell everything like it is, there's not gonna be any space for the lies any more."

And lying is something that these rappers have absolutely no intention of doing.

Antonio Blair is Dosha Devastation, one half of arthouse speed-rap duo House of LaDosha. He raps in six-inch heels and a weave, with his bushy goatee the only clue as to what's under the sequined bodycon. For Blair, staying true to his art is paramount. "I wanna give people a little bit more credit," he says. "I don't wanna dumb it down." He can't imagine finding a label that would give him the freedom to do what he does, so he'd prefer to go it alone.

Venus X is the female co-founder of Ghe20 Goth1k, the anything-goes New York parties where many of the scene's acts were first showcased. Venus's matriarchal role finds her protective sensibilities piqued at the prospect of outsiders hoping to pilfer the scene's edgy marketability without acknowledging its depth and connotations. On Zebra Katz's record deal, she is forthright: "I would never work with Diplo because he's a heteronormative piece of shit. I would never put gay music on that label. He will just capitalise on whatever is hot at the moment. And being gay is not a question of 'hot', it's just being gay."

This atmosphere of defiance prevails throughout the whole crew. There is little desire for a watered-down version of acceptance – a "love us, love our weaves" attitude allows them to do their thing with little concern as to how it will be received by mainstream hip-hop. Venus X is quick to point out that A$AP Rocky, Sony's latest golden boy, didn't have a clue who she was and what she stood for when he allowed her to appear in his Peso video.

Cakes Da Killa

Rapper Mikey Quattlebaum Jr, AKA Mykki Blanco, tells me with zeal about the first time he really dressed up as a woman. He bubbles with mischievous excitement, recounting the range of thugs, creeps and gorgeous males who fell under his spell ("It was like a conduit had opened"). He channelled his new-found creative freedom into making club-focused hip-hop, chock-full of tongue-twisting put-downs that would give Minaj a run for her Benjamins. His latest single, Wavvy, has received Twitter love from the likes of Grimes and Devonté Hynes, and his upcoming mixtape has been produced by current wunderkinds Brenmar and Nguzunguzu among others.

Quattlebaum's heroes are Marilyn Manson and Eminem, household names who conquered the mainstream by doing anything but play by the rules. He feels that the internet is essential to the success of what he is doing now. "The mainstream model of how to be an entertainer was broken down. And now it's literally cool guy versus cool guy."

The sky's the limit for a scene that doesn't fear failure because it is not striving for mainstream notions of success. The ball scene and its offspring will continue doing what they're doing, whether the world is watching or not. And so it is the turn of mainstream hip-hop to adapt and accept the unstoppable influence of queer rap on their universe. "Who was doing it in 2005 before it was trendy and who's gonna do it in 2020 when people are over it?" says Venus X. "It's still gonna be the same people. Because this is the culture that they've created for themselves to survive."